


Found (Bucky/Reader)

by InstitutionalizedAnarchy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Capsicle, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:58:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InstitutionalizedAnarchy/pseuds/InstitutionalizedAnarchy
Summary: The sins of the father are the sins of the son - the secrets of the mother are the secrets of the daughter. (y/n) has managed to normalize her life after four years, but one knock on her door will change that. Convinced to help James 'Who the hell is Bucky' Barnes, her hands are full and her life is in danger. When the Calvary is called in, will they be able to finish Hydra off? Or will her mother's fate become her own?





	1. Tall, Dark, and Deadly

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry, it was easier for the ending to name 'your' mom, but if I'm right somehow I want psychic street cred.) Always happy for suggestions or criticism. Let me know if you like certain things or if you don't. You can influence the way this story goes: art is only beautiful when shared.

Rain tapped on the window as if calling for the (h/c)’s attention. It had won it minutes ago; the soothing melody stirring memories that had no right resurfacing. Strange how the rain was always the same, even in different cities.

“(y/n),” The pull of her friend’s voice was not as strong as the pull of lethargy. “(y/n)!” Emily, as her faded nametag so proudly wore, heard her hum in acknowledgment. “Boss man pays us for a reason, hon, three coming up.”

(y/n) sighed, sticking her tongue out to win a chuckle from her coworker, and turned back toward the counter. A year ago she would have fought to the death on Nova’s behalf, now she’d rather take death. The small cafe had a way of re-energizing it’s patrons with dark roasted life while simultaneously draining it’s workers with every espresso pump they put into empty cups.

The smile molded specifically for hiding hatred (adopted and adorned by all the staff that worked exhausting hours in the face of annoying customers) greeted the family now staring blankly at the menu. (y/n) waited patiently as the child in the center stared up at her, his tiny arms reaching up as if wanting her to pick him up.

The parents paid him no mind, ordering their coffee without a glance at their son. She, of course, took it with exceeding politeness though the looming thought did occur to dump the coffee down their fronts. Before they could pay or ignore the boy further, (y/n) leaned her elbows on the counter to equal his level.

“Heya, sugar, want anything sweet?” She nodded up at the menu and his eyes widened at the acknowledgement.

He looked back at his parents for permission; they sighed in exasperation, the mother yielding under pressure from the barista. His face lit up and he once again reached up. “Cookie?”

She winked, the purest form of a grin spreading across her face, “On the house.”

The parents seemed slightly relieved and paid the expense for their coffee, moving to the other station to await their drinks. (y/n) took a chocolate chip cookie (fresh out of the oven) and handed it down to the boy who took it in glee. He reached up once more, though this time obtaining his aim, and bounced an (h/c) curl that had refused refuge in the girl’s bun.

(y/n) laughed when out of his tiny throat came a joyful giggle. After successfully getting chocolate all over his mouth, he skipped over to his parents and grabbed his mother’s hand. She glared at the transferred chocolate now all over her fingers.

The barista scoffed and whispered, “Give ‘em hell, kid.” under her breath.

“Cute.” Her head turned to the front and she immediately stood straight when met with two very serious men dressed in suits. A third stood slightly behind them, an amused smirk on his face. “(y/n) (l/n)?”

“The CIA employs literates, I assume?” Cheekiness was in her nature, being intimidated was not.

The young man chuckled, his eyes falling to her nametag. “We’re not with the CIA, Miss (l/n).”

“FBI then?” She handed Emily a cup, apparently no longer paying them too much mind. “And It’s (y/n). ‘Miss (l/n)’ makes me sound old and unaccomplished. As it happens I am young and unaccomplished.”

The two suits made no move, though the third continued his smile. “Not the FBI either. (y/n), we are looking for someone and we have reason to believe that you may be able to help us find him. He has long, brown hair usually covered by a hat. Stubble, ungroomed. A vacant stare; he may appear lost or dazed.”

“Sounds dreamy.” She turned around to help make a cappuccino. She glanced over her shoulder. “You said you weren’t with the FBI? It has to be NSA.”

He shook his head. “It should be said this man is quite dangerous. Is there any chance you may have seen him?”

“Look, MIB, I’ve been working here for a year. Faces blur into one big pile of ‘God, I wish my shift was up’ so unless you got specifics on ‘tall, dark, and deadly’ I can’t help.” She paused, her brow raised. “ARGUS?”

“What?”

“No wait, that’s not real.” She chuckled. “Man, I really gotta stop watching Arrow until three in the morning.”

The man’s smile lessened. “This man wouldn’t be a costumer. He isn’t a coffee junkie. We believe he may have tried to contact you. Specifically you.”

“Well I don’t have any crazy ex’s or stalkers. I ain’t special, suit. Just a barista.”

A coldness, an impatience, was now evident in his tone. “You’re right about that. You’re not special,” She rolled her eyes. “But your mother, Ellie (l/n), was.”

She stilled at the mention of her mom. “What do you know about my mother?”

“What we know isn’t your concern. What you know is ours.”

(y/n) sighed, brushing her hair back as her skin had started to heat up. “She was a nurse. A traveling one since that’s all we ever did. She was in a car crash 4 years ago and she didn’t make it. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would ya?”

The man’s face was now one of indifference. “No, but I’m sorry to hear it. This man, we think he was a patient of your mother’s. He may be looking for her - or you - to help him.”

(y/n) crossed her arms over her chest, her stare untelling. “There’s some estrangement from your accusations and from probability.” Her eyes narrowed. “So exactly which sketchy organization are you from again?”

His stoic expression morphed back into a collected calm. “Thank you for your time, (y/n).”

“Yeah, thanks for wasting it.” He said nothing, turning with his comrades to exit the building. “Hey, good luck finding your boyfriend.” She watched him turn over his shoulder for a quick, dangerous smile before all three men were gone.

“They seemed chipper.” Emily brushed past her friend in order to grab a lid. “You okay, hon?”

“Always, Em.” She shared a reassuring smile before glancing at the clock and falling against the counter so her head was hidden. “Four more hours.”

She felt her hair being swatted lightly. “Four more hours and you can watch Arrow. C’mon, (y/nn).” Emily heard what was undeniably a pained groan from the heap on the table. “Bet I can get more numbers than you.”

The girl’s head shot up. “Never.”

Emily pulled down her shirt so as to accentuate her cleavage. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

She laughed, reaching up to let the long locks fall from the bun and frame her face. “Loser buys winner drink of their choice.”

“Love, it’s discounted anyway.”

“Not the point, Em.”

Emily threw out her hand. “You’re on.” (y/n) shook it; the two melted into laughter and took up spots on each register.

The hours passed, still slowly though the clock, for once, was not the center of attention. Soon the cafe was closed, the lights turned off, the staff separated, (y/n) clutching discounted - but not free - Red Eye in her hands. She was three numbers away from tying, four from winning.

The loss kept her thoughts busy for most of the walk to her apartment, though once through the door it was the suits that dominated her mind. She was used to weird encounters, she grew up with them, but they had ended four years ago. They died with her mother.

But once again the unexplained and unnerving were breathing and, worse, asking questions. (y/n) had played obvious and oblivious: her mother, as far as the sweet, little barista was concerned, remained a standard nurse until a simple car crash killed her. That, however, was not the truth she knew.

The girl threw her work clothes over a chair and opened her closet to change. A worn red box caught her eye more violently than ever before. It was curiosity. An urge to know what her mother had hidden under the lid.

She stared at it intensely. Many times had she imagined the contents. Many times had she stood on her tiptoes and dragged it down from the self. Many times had that lid barely come off before her eyes caught on the symbol and her heart screamed to close the box. Deciding what she knew of her mother was already too much, she grabbed a shirt and closed the door, the box’s silent mystery muffled by the call of Netflix.

(y/n) hopped over her couch, one leg spread down the length of it and the other supported by the cushion. The TV lit up in life and soon green ran across the screen. She melted down into the seat, “No, Felicity, go for Ray. You’re too good for Oliver. He has a son.” She scrunched her nose, “Sorry, you don’t that. I shouldn’t either. Fucking spoilers.”

The sounds of asskicking and broken trust eventually lulled her to sleep, though Netflix didn’t have time to question her devotion to the show as it was still playing when a loud knock rocked her apartment door hours later.

She jumped at the unexpected sound believing maybe someone else had blown up and Malcolm Merlyn was the cause of her departure from a much deserved nap. Dazed, she glanced around only to see Ray and Felicity exchanging a heated kiss on screen. Her hands flew into the air in celebration until another hardened knock threatened to break down the door.

She jolted, getting up sooner rather than later to appease whatever asshole wanted her attention. Just as she was approaching it, a third knock made her question whether she wanted to see who was behind the demolition of the wood owned by her landlord (hey, she may have signed a contract, but he bought the building). Curiosity, though, demands satisfaction.

She unlocked it and let it swing open, “Can you satiate the vendetta against my door maybe at a more reasonable time?”

Curiosity can go fuck itself.

The man at the door looked as though he had been caught in the rain for hours. Long brown hair, dirty hat, stubble, though his face was mostly hidden due to the fact he was leaning on the frame for support. This was the man the suits were looking for; she thought but for a moment that they left out a huge detail that may have helped identify him just a smidge better. He had a metal hand.

Before a string of incoherent words that would not only embarrass but also make (y/n) look like a complete dumbass could spill from her already open mouth, the man slowly met her eyes.

For a second, before he spoke in a gravely voice that had hardly seen use, he looked found. “Ellie?”

The word had barely come out before he crumbled to a heap on the ground. (y/n) stared at the unconscious form on the ground knowing only one thing: she wanted to go back to sleep.


	2. Define Uncomfortable

“Oh shit.” (y/n) stared at the lump on the floor in a daze. “Fuuuuuck me.” She knelt down, carefully lifting his hat, “Oh, if you were awake I’d make that an invitation.”

The click of a lock sounded to her right and panic set in. She jumped over him, clad only in a large t-shirt that covered her underwear, and began to push the greatly outweighing man into her apartment. Not as easy as it may sound.

Luck did not favor the poor girl trying helplessly to coax the lax body of the stranger past the doorframe. As she huffed, the cute boy from next door (who the hell is up at 4 in the morning?...other than fangirls who just want to see a certain blonde ‘IT’ girl kick some ass), stepped out, some of the papers in his arm fluttering to the ground.

(y/n)’s eye grew wide, shoving the unusually heavy body as hard as she could. “Wake up! You’re about to ruin my chances, you-”

“(y/n)?” A soft chuckle followed the sweet call of her name. There he was: dorky, adorable, a total Barry Allen look alike. Maybe she should lay off the TV. 

“Heyyyyy, Grant.” Flustered, she patted the nearest object in order to maintain a semblance of cool. Until she realized she was patting the strangers butt. (y/n) quickly stood up, letting her hair fall over her face to hide her reddened cheeks. “What-where are you-I mean, why are you up so late-early?” Just. Shut. Up.

Another softened laugh, like he had just woken up. “Work. I’m a chef - well, a cook at Waffle House. I know it’s lame but-”

“No!” Too much enthusiasm. “No, I love waffles. They’re like pancakes but with abs.” What?

His laugh echoed through the halls and he met her eye with a perfect smile. Once he realized he’d been staring, he coughed awkwardly and tore his gaze away - and onto the large unconscious man she was trying to hide behind her feet. “Uhh, what’s with the…”

Sometimes our brains process words faster than they can process if they should be said, and only after the fact do the little read warning lights flash. This, for (y/n), was one such time. “He’s my boyfriend!” Well done. “Went out drinking with his friends tonight. Guess he had a little too much.” She didn’t have to worry about her ‘boyfriend’ ruining her chances; she was doing a great job of that herself. 

“Your,” Grant blinked, shuffling on his feet. “Sorry, I didn’t think-I mean it’s no surprise-of course you’d have-you have a boyfriend?”

“Yep,” She looked down at the heap. “There he is. Charming, I know.” This was not a situation she wanted to be in. In fact, she would love to be out of it right fucking now. “Well, I should-”

“No, yeah! I have recipes to make.” He shook the papers in his hand. “Right, well, goodnight-er, goodmorning?”

(y/n) smiled sheepishly, “Have a nice day works.”

Grant nodded with grin. “Have a nice day, (y/n).” 

She waved as he walked past her and down the stairs leaving her with cyborg. If pushing wasn’t working, she’d have to pull. Taking hold of the cold metal arm, she moved toward her couch. The body began to move slowly until the door to her apartment (dented slightly) closed loudly. 

(y/n) fell back along the side of the sofa in front of the man. Something told her to let him rest, that he needed it. Something else (call it, history...or that suit from the cafe) told her that if he knew her mother, he was dangerous. She tiptoed into her room and grabbed the aluminum bat. Metal on metal, it’s not like he was a trained killer, right?

Silently making her way back over, sympathy took over the beat of her heart and she felt compelled to make him comfortable. Taking the pillow from the couch, she propped it under his head and took the faded hat. He looked troubled, even in sleep. She reached out, moving some hair out of his face.

Working in a cafe you tend to see people. Not how they are, rushed and industrialized, but as philosophers, adventurers, inventors. It’s nature to put on a mask because expression is insanity and insanity gets you locked away. She often wondered why no one else noticed it. The insane are the happiest. Maybe sanity was insanity, so why does no one smile? The masks. They do well to shape society - one big anonymous family. V’s vendetta had nothing on the world’s. It got it’s revenge though. People go to moot jobs, live moot lives, get married just to say they did and then create little humans they’re too scared to look at because they’re just reminders of insanity. Why can’t the leaves just change color? Why can’t the moon follow the car? What does it matter the skin of another? Why can’t they ride the back of a dragon or rule a kingdom? So when some business man struts in with his $900 suit and a briefcase that holds nothing inside and orders an espresso, (y/n) can see the ocean crashing in his eyes. She can see the adventurer that wanted to explore Atlantis. And the biker that comes in every day? She wanted to marry a prince, become the queen and kick his ass aside because his rule was unfair. (y/n) saw people. Or she speculated. Made the day go faster.

So, what about the man in front of her? The man may be the killer, but the boy was a fighter. A daredevil. The kind to prove himself. He needed help, he was scared. 

(y/n) sighed and pulled the blanket around herself before standing up (with the bat) and laying on the couch. Her interest in the bow fight unfolding on screen was diminished and she felt herself drift into an uncomfortable sleep.

Stirring. Something was stirring. The girl cracked her eyes open slightly to unforgiving rays of light and a judgemental ‘are you still watching’ from Netflix. What’s stirring?

Oh fuck.

Jolting awake, and also onto the floor, she grabbed the bat and pointed it at the man slowly getting up. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, groaning and rolling his shoulders thanks to the hard ground. A thud caught his attention and his eyes glided toward the couch. There was a girl, shaking bat in hand, staring at him with wide (e/c) eyes. Her (h/c) hair fell everywhere about her though the sun behind her made it somewhat angelic. “What-”

“Who are you?” (y/n) was tired of being asked all the questions, it was her turn.

“I,” He looked around the apartment before putting a hand up in security. “I don’t know.” There was a picture on the wall. “El-” One was the girl, the other, “Ellie. Where’s Ellie (l/n)? I need Ellie.”

The name killed the fight inside of her and the bat crashed to the floor in defeat. “Maple Grove Cemetery.”

“I don’t-” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“She’d been dead for four years. I’m her daughter.”

“Daughter? No, no, this can’t be happening!” Before (y/n) had a chance to calm him down his metal hand was through her floor board.

She groaned, “I don’t think that’s covered in my lease.”

“I need to remember. She always helped me remember. I need-” He was ignoring the girl well enough, even when he was looking straight at her. “I need to know who I am.”

Curiosity demands satisfaction, but sympathy years for action. “Alright, up.” He seemed confused. She stood, holding her hand out. His eyes traveled up her body, her face heating up when she remembered her attire, but her hand remained. 

He glanced at his skeptically before reaching out his hand and stopping. His eye had caught on the metal and he slowly put it back to his side before putting his other hand out. (y/n) saw the adjustment and acted accordingly to pull him to his feet, though in the process he almost knocked her off her’s. 

She noticed he kept glancing around the apartment, “You can’t help me.”

It took everything not to comment on how it was with her assistance he was now standing but she only motioned him to follow and said, “I can give you a shower, clothes and food. That’s help enough, right?” The man nodded timidly and stepped inside the bathroom at her request. “Clothes will be there when you get out,” She motioned to the bed. “I think they’ll fit. Just give me the dirty one’s and I’ll wash them. You like eggs?”

“Uhh,” Someone define uncomfortable. “Yeah, eggs are fine.” 

“Great.” She stood there for a few seconds. “Oh, right, sorry.” She jumped slightly and turned towards the kitchen.

“Your name,” She spun around and he watched her hair dance for a second. “I didn’t catch it.”

“I didn’t throw it.” A smile spread on her face. “(y/n).”


	3. Hello, Bucky

As she had said, the clothes were lying on her bed. He could smell the food from the kitchen and he couldn’t remember the last time he was given such a luxury. He took a minute to glance around the bedroom; the girl was relatively normal. Pictures of friends took up some of the wall and books were scattered. He assumed it had been remodeled after her mother died. She had protected her daughter from the world. 

When he stepped into the living room she was humming, her back to him. He opened his mouth to ask about the clothes in his hands when she cut him off, “Put ‘em on the counter, I have a load to wash anyway.” He narrowed his eyes, but complied. (y/n) spun around, her ponytail swishing. “So how do you like your-”

The shirt he was wearing when he dropped dead at her doorstep had been long sleeved, her ex boyfriend's shirt which he adorned now was not. It wasn’t just a metal hand. It was a whole  _ metal fucking arm. _ Her eyes trained on the red star and the knife next to her found its way into her hand.

He had been wrong. Her mother hadn’t protected her from the world, she prepared her for it. 

(y/n) slashed the knife at his chest, the man jumping back just in time. He grabbed her hand though she only spun, kicking him in the stomach. He was knocked aside for a second and she brought the weapon down on him. The metal hand caught her arm and she growled out, “Who the fuck are you?”

“I told you,” He knocked the knife to the ground and shoved her back. “I don’t know!” She vaulted over the counter and grabbed for something hidden under it. He was only given a second to bring his arm up before it was pelted with bullets. “What are you doing?”

“You’re no friend of my mother’s,” (y/n) quickly ducked into the hallway. It was silent, a sure sign that he was moving around. “She warned me about you!”

His voice came from the living room, “Did she happen to mention a name?”

(y/n) couldn’t help the tiny smile that stole her lips. “No, just the star on your arm. Though she left out the part where it was metal.”

The man carefully lifted the bat from the ground. “Most people do. What did she say about me?”

She crept quietly out. “You’re dangerous and that I should stay away from you. You’re unhinged. Incapable of allegiance. Colder than winter.”

“Was she a poet?”

“A real Robert Frost.” (y/n) was close to him now. Their voices no longer bounced off the walls. “She told me if I ever met you, I should kill you.”

“What did I do?” The question wasn’t for her, it was spoken too softly. 

Before she could form a rational reason to question her mother’s 4 year old instructions, (y/n) pounced from behind the couch and fired a shot that inevitably ended up denting the bat. He swung it just so the gun was thrown against the window, cracking it.

(y/n) watched it before meeting his eye with smirk, “Home run.” She went to kick him back, but he caught her foot against his chest with the bat. She grunted and swung her free leg around him to bring them both down. In some quick moves, the man had her pinned against the ground, their faces inches apart. Through heavy breath, she managed a laugh. “If this was a shitty teenage angst novel we’d start making out right now.”

“Where’d you learn to fight?” 

“Why? Remind you of something?”

His eyes screamed anger, but not at her. “She said she was going to get out. She said she’d never indulge them.”

“She’s a fucking liar, mate.” (y/n) squirmed under him. “Ellie never cared about anyone, especially me.” She blew air onto her face. “And apparently you.”

“She told me if I ever needed help getting away from them, I should come find her. Here. She’d help me remember.”

“Well, she’s dead so unless she’s haunting this place - actually you know some of my doors  _ have _ been opening on their own recently.”

The man let her go and fell back against the front of the couch. “I need to remember.”

(y/n) sighed and brushed her hair back. “She was a nurse, not a psychologist. How could she have-oh fuck.” She slowly sat up, her eyes drifting to the star she’d been warned about. “The box.”

“What? What box?” Hope had scratched at his voice as the girl bolted up and ran into her room.

When she came back a crimson box was laid in her arms. She held it as though she hated it. As if it disgusted her. It seemed like she wanted to throw it at the already cracked window in hopes it crashed through, but she handed it gently to him. He stared at the lid, his metal hand toying at the idea of opening it. Right before he did, a knock on the door stilled both of them.

(y/n) glanced down at him. “What reasonable thing sounds like gunshots?” A nervous knock sounded again and she shuffled over before spinning around quickly. “Oh right, you’re my boyfriend.”

“What-”

“Thanks, babe.” One cheeky smile later and she had thrown the door open. “Grant! What are you…”

The neighbor looked up from his shoes the second he heard her voice. “(y/n), uh, sorry, It’s just, I heard a loud noise - kinda like gunshots? - and I just thought I’d come over and check on you.”

“Oh,” She faked an innocent smile. “I’m sorry, Grant! He,” She motioned behind her, “was watching Mr. and Mrs. Smith on the loudest possible setting.”

Grant’s face fell at the reminder of her boyfriend, but nodded quickly. “Oh, course.”

“But thank you so much for coming to see if everything was ok,” She lightly touched his arm. “That was so sweet of you.”

The boy piped up slightly. “No, yeah, it was no problem. I, uh, I’m going to go back now.”

She giggled. “Ok, see ya, Grant.”

“See ya, (y/n).”

The door shut with a disappointed thud and (y/n) fell back against it with a sigh. The man was staring at her, his brow raised. “Nothing sounds more like gunshots than gunshots, ok?”

He rolled his eyes and trained them back on the red begging for attention. He was soon joined by the girl, and he pried the dusty lid off. 

Hydra's skull greeted them first and both glanced at each other before he reached in to extract it. It was a file that hid his real name in the pages It hid everything. All he’d done, all that was done to him. He’d know his name, but at what cost?

(y/n) had gone for a red notebook, a silver star shining in the middle. She flipped through the pages, some words clearer than others. She only saw his struggle when she looked at him. He was torn. “Here.” She took the folder from his hands, an action he allowed. The cover opened to a picture of him, ragged, colder than winter. 

He was watching her face carefully. Any recoil, horror, sputter of anger. She was, however, calm, like an agent would be. There was a moment when her (e/c) eyes lit up and smile larger than he could have imagined set her face into a glow.

She looked up from the torn papers to meet the blue eyes drowning in curiosity. “Hello, Bucky.”

He’d imagined this moment. When he would stumble across a hidden file on the computer or someone he should have known called him on the street. Either way he thought the feeling would be the same: completion, and as satisfying as that would surely be - that would be all. 

So it must have been the way she said it. Maybe it was the smile that leaked into her voice or the soft tone she used. Maybe it was the small laugh that stole the end of his name as she watched his face react. Maybe it was the way she said it; like a friend or maybe even something more. 

He couldn’t remember if he had ever cared for his name, but now he could hear it over and over. She had given him more than completion, she had given him a personality - an identity. He had a past now; he had feelings. He had passed the realm of machine with a heartbeat.

“Bucky?” He hadn’t realized he was staring blankly at her (or maybe he had). “Well,” (y/n) glanced back at the file. “It’s actually James Buchanan Barnes, but it says you responded better to Bucky. Your pick, Barnes.”

Bucky carefully took the folder back, “Bucky. I like Bucky.”

“Me too,” She smirked. “Sounds less like a 75 year old and more like a 26 year old.” He scoffed, his nose now buried in the file. Mission after mission. Kill after kill. (y/n) carelessly flicked through the book from before when she came upon a list. “ Желание, ржaвый, Семнадцать -”

Bucky slammed the book shut; his breathing slightly ragged and his hair having fallen into his face. “Don’t.”

(y/n) put her hands up. “Fine.” He took the journal and placed it beside him.  “I don’t know what’s so upsetting about, longing, rust and a number, but fine.”

“How do you know russian?” His voice was monotone, more accusing than curious.

She shrugged, picking up another paper from the box. “Same way I know how to kick your ass.”

He let a quick laugh free, “I pinned you.”

“Only ‘cause I wanted you on top of me.” Bucky gave her a disgusted scoff which failed to fool her. 

He looked up suddenly, “Is something burning?”

“Just my hopes and dreams.” (y/n) scrambled up and ran to the kitchen. He heard her yell “Fuck!” and he smiled softly. “So, uhm, Bucky?” She poked her head out. “I no longer have eggs. Care for some coffee and semi-questionable pancakes?”

“Semi-questionable?”

“They’re only questionable if you dare to ask.” She leaned down to collect the box. “C’mon, Buck, we’ll desect this over caffeine.”

Bucky nodded, getting up to follow her. All the answers to who he was laid in her hands, but the girl herself had no box. She held her own file in her mind and he’d have to get to know her to extract it. A mission which, even to him, seemed somewhat daunting. 


End file.
